Soaring (Magdalene #2)(119)

Mickey again stared down at me for a while before he sighed, lifted his free hand, cupped the back of my head and pressed my cheek against his chest.

I wrapped my free arm around him and gave his hand in mine a squeeze.

I allowed us to stay that way for a bit before I pushed my head against his hand and looked up at him.

“Gotta get my guy a beer,” I said softly.

He didn’t respond except to bend his neck, touch his forehead to mine then he went in for a lip brush.

After that, he pulled away but kept hold of my hand.

We went inside. Mickey got a beer. We lazed on the couch while he drank it and we watched Letterman.

Then he closed down the house and silently, he guided me to his bed.

Chapter Nineteen

Flash

I sucked hard at Mickey’s thumb in my mouth and I did this so I wouldn’t pant.

It was very early the next morning.

We were in Mickey’s bed.

We were spooning.

Mickey had his face in my hair.

And I had my hips tilted, Mickey’s finger at my clit, and I was taking his cock.

Suddenly, his thrusts increased in power and velocity, the pressure of his finger magnified, and his mouth was at my ear.

“Fuckin’ get there, Amy,” he growled.

He was close.

But I was too, and his growl shivered down my neck, my shoulder, across my breasts, belly, then gathered between my legs, and with his cock and his finger, I sucked his thumb deep and went soaring.

“Thank f*ck,” he gritted, buried his face in my neck, his cock deep and groaned against my skin.

I felt nothing but my orgasm and all that was Mickey, his heat, his strength, the power of his body tensed with his own orgasm.

Then mine glided from me and I relaxed against him and lapped at his thumb.

I knew his had left him too when he slid it out of my mouth and ran it along my lower lip.

His mouth came back to my ear. “You on the Pill?”

“Yes,” I breathed against his thumb.

“You f*ckin’ anyone but me?”

I grinned at his ridiculous question.

“No.”

“You trust I’m not takin’ anyone but you?”

I felt my body stiffen because that was huge.

But this was Mickey.

So I whispered, “Yes.”

His fingers at my jaw dug in and I knew he knew what I gave him was huge.

But he didn’t dwell on it.

He asked, “Then you good with ungloved?”

“Yes, Mickey.”

“Thank Christ,” he muttered. “Condoms are history.”

I relaxed into him, sliding a hand up his sinewy forearm and wrapping my fingers around his wrist.

He twisted it, caught my hand and pressed both gently to my throat.

He settled in and I felt his breath stir the top of my hair.

We lay connected for glorious moments before he said, “Thanks for stayin’ the night.”

“You need me, I’m here,” I replied.

I heard the lightness in his tone when he went on, “Thanks for takin’ my cock.”

“You need me, I’m here,” I repeated.

I felt his chuckle and squeezed his hand.

“My heiress wanna loaf in bed while I take a shower?”

I didn’t know what my other choices were, other than get up, get dressed and go home before he had to get his kids up.

Or shower with him.

But truly, a waking-up-being-made-love-to-after-getting-about-five-hours-of-sleep orgasm was maybe the only thing that would encourage me to “loaf” in his bed rather than be naked with him in his shower.

“If I’ve got time, I’m gonna loaf.”

“You got it,” he murmured, kissed my shoulder then slid out of me and the bed.

He pulled the covers up before he walked to the bathroom.

I watched him walk to the bathroom, heard the toilet flush then the shower go on.

I’d been in his room once before, the night I spent there when my kids last left me. I didn’t need to peruse it.

I knew it was nice. Manly. Rhiannon, if she’d ever been there in the decorating scheme, was g-o-n-e gone from there in a way it looked like she’d never existed.

His room, like mine, took up one whole end of his house. It included a big master bathroom toward the backyard that had a double basin, separate shower and the toilet was in its own little room. There was a walk-in closet, only one, but it was huge. The fixtures weren’t old, it had been renovated and that was done sometime relatively recently. Perhaps not last year but if I had to guess, in the last five. If I didn’t have the bathroom to beat all bathrooms and three trust funds that meant I could create any bathroom I wanted, it would have been amazing.

The walls of the bedroom were painted a slate gray that worked with the wood baseboards and amazing tongue and groove ceiling, the wood so dark it was nearly black. He had a fireplace too, one with a stone hearth like the others in his house. That was situated against the wall across from his king-sized, mission-style bed.

He had slate gray sheets that had a sateen sheen. He also had a duvet with a cover, his in dark gray with a hexagon pattern, the lines making the design burgundy.

Between bed and bathroom, there was a large hunk of floor space that he’d filled with two matching club chairs. They shared an ottoman, a sturdy but attractive end table and a standing lamp made in brass. The chairs were covered with clothes (apparently, Mickey didn’t hit the laundry hamper with his clothes either, it looked like he hadn’t done laundry since I met him).